


Not so Perfect Afterall

by tekowrites



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:07:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24378469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tekowrites/pseuds/tekowrites
Summary: AU: High school, Senior year. Clark thinks his life is nearly, if not already perfect. Then he overhears a conversation that changes absolutely everything.Bruce is there to pick up the pieces.No beta, surprise!
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 16
Kudos: 101





	Not so Perfect Afterall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GinAkuma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GinAkuma/gifts).



Perfect lives don’t exist, but if they did, Clark would imagine that his came pretty close. He passed by the gym and watched his boyfriend get a 3 pointer, watched as the girls screamed, the boys scowled and his boyfriend smile when he caught Clark’s eyes.

There was a pretty fancy corned beef sandwich with all the fixin’s in his lunch bag, courtesy of his mom, and when he sat to eat, his car keys -courtesy of his dad- jingled in his pocket as he shifted.

He’d already scored a track and field scholarship, and by the end of the school year, would be saying goodbye to the best quirky small town known to man, to have wild adventures alongside his boyfriend.

Who, just then, slam dunked the ball ending the game.

Yeah, if his life wasn’t perfect, it was damn close.

***

Bruce walked up the bleachers towards him, towel still around his shoulders, wiping the sweat off and crowding into Clark’s space.

“What are you eating?”

He makes a show of hiding the sub, before replying with “corned beef with smoked Gouda cheese, lemon dill mayo, two crispy pieces of bacon and butter toasted brioche buns, and relish. Not an organic thing in sight.”

Bruce opens his mouth and points inside, “give me a bite,”

“No way, Alfred would have my head.” He was warned not to mess with Clark’s healthy, no GMO, organic only, caviar topped diet.

Bruce nearly sat in his lap when he got even closer, tugging the arm with the sub towards him. “What he doesn’t know won’t kill him. Give me a bite, brat.”

“Nope. I won’t be responsible for you getting fat.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow.

“That came out wrong. I’m not saying _I’m_ fat.”

“Just gifted in the ass department,” as if to confirm, Bruce’s eyes slid downward towards his -not fat thank you very much- booty.

“Hey!”

“What? I love your ass. That wasn’t a dig.”

He mumbled ‘Freak’, but didn’t really take offense, because he did have a nice ass.

He gave Bruce a bite in the end because it was a crime not to share his Ma’s gift, and because Bruce was kissing the side of his mouth now, slowly encroaching on the sandwich, so it was inevitable he’d steal a bite anyway.

“Worth the calories?”

“And the green smoothie I’ll have to drink to detoxify.”

Clark shuddered in disgust, vividly remembering when he’d asked to taste the smoothie Bruce was drinking. That experience had taught him two things:

  1. green smoothies were slimy and disgusting
  2. that he should always ask Bruce to elaborate, because he was a man of few words, and saying smoothie was a gross understatement.



so to that effect, he wrinkled his nose and made sure he didn’t need to partake in the same activity, as succinctly as he could, “you can have my share too if it helps.”

Bruce snorted, “deserter.”

So Clark countered with, “and you better brush your teeth afterwards, no second-hand grass flavor please.”

He fell off the bleachers and was on the floor in a flash, being tickled to death while Bruce demanded an apology. “Say it.”

“Stop please! Stop! Sorry! S-Ah!”

Bruce’s smile showed his neat white teeth, and Clark was hard pressed not to return his smile with one of his own. “Pull me up.”

Bruce didn’t tease this time, just pulled him up and linked their fingers together. Clark squeezed Bruce’s hand, just a bit, still catching his breath.

“Are you staying over tonight?”

Clark nodded, “yeah. There’s no way I’ll be able to sleep alone at home after a horror movie marathon with you. I don’t know why you insist on getting these morbid movies.”

The smirk on Bruce’s face was gone before he could fully catch it, but it was clear in his voice when he said, “because I love watching you pelt evil ghosts and clowns with popcorn.”

“Because they freak me out, and you’re too busy clinging to me like an octopus, so someone has to save us.”

“Scaredy ca-oof.”

“An elbow to the ribs is the least you deserve. Give me real crime any day and I’ll show you. Just not freaky cross-morph alien shit. That’s stuff’s just not right.”

“Your imagination leaves something to be desired.”

“Oh yeah? Funny that I always thought I was good at imagining things were bigger than they are in real life.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed at that, fingers squeezing Clark’s just a bit too hard, “or, your interpretation of measurement is very... _loose_.”

It was Clark’s turn to crush the fingers in his as hard as he could, “maybe if you’d let yourself be in _my_ shoes, at least _once_ , you selfi-”

“Ahem.”

Both of them froze. Clark cringing at the voice, while Bruce’s entire face went blank.

“Young master Bruce. I am here to escort you home.”

Bruce nodded and turned to Clark, “I’ll expect you later.”

He leaned in for a kiss, and Clark was all too happy to comply, but still be mindful of giving Alfred a show. Still, he couldn’t resist leaning into Bruce for another brief kiss, before whispering, “I’ll bring a measuring tape,” then sprinting away before Bruce could tug him back by his clothes.

***

It didn’t take him long to stuff a small duffel bag with a few essentials for the movie marathon, whistling as he packed, and making sure he had enough clothes to last the weekend, picking from the neat, freshly laundered shirts his Ma stacked his closet with. The last time Bruce insisted they wash his clothes at the manor, he received the biggest stink eye from Alfred, whom he’d realized very very late, must be responsible for collecting Bruce’s washing and putting it back again.

Nothing said ‘I know what you two are doing’ more than having someone place your underwear in your hands, folded into a tiny square and pressed to perfection, while knowing full well what shape it had been in after being tossed into the hamper.

That was why he wished Bruce would stay over at his sometimes. His parents were amazing. They loved Bruce, always had, even when they were just friends. They’d been so supportive of all of his decisions, had given him nothing but love, even when he’d made mistakes, even when he felt he disappointed them in some way or another, they always chased those thoughts away. Sometimes, he thought about growing up like Bruce, with the Waynes, but even though the Wayne family was always nice to him, always welcoming, they never carried that warmth his parents had in abundance, had always felt a little aloof. Sometimes he wondered if Bruce never fully letting go and being as silly as Clark could be at times, was due to that.

He’d choose his parents over everything, riches, money or fame. It was why going to college would be bitter sweet. He’d tried to get into the closest college to home, the scholarship being the second incentive. He was already planning on driving back every weekend. They were also getting on a little in age, and he wanted to be there to help out with running the farm, driving his Ma to her friends for bingo night, sitting on the porch with his Pa and getting to see the world through his eyes, that twinkle he had when he’d make sex joke he’d been saving up and Clark would roll his eyes and pretend laugh, because he knows his Pa is trying, and because he’d been saving the jokes to tell Clark when he was old enough. He just hadn’t accounted for the fact Bruce would be the partner Clark would eventually walk hand in hand with.

Clark shook his head, and wondered when he’d gotten so sappy, before shouldering the duffel bag, and looking for his parents.

He kissed his ma’s head, thanking her for the sandwich and his laundry and hugged his Pa, then he was out the door. He’d rushed a little because he wanted to leave before the rain hit, watching the clouds as they slowly gathered and the sun nearly set, but he’d make it in good time if he hit the road now. He turned the key in the car and was met with silence. He tried again, and again, but the car wouldn’t start. He was about to get out and check under the hood, when he noticed he or maybe his Ma, had somehow forgotten to turn off the headlights, which meant his battery was completely dead.

Clark sighed, and got out of the car, taking his duffel with him. He’d just tell his Pa and borrow another car instead, no big deal. He got into the house, and heard his name. He was about to call out when he realized they were talking about him, not calling him.

“I don’t want him to think we’re trying to replace him.” He frowned at his ma’s words; the context lost to him.

“It’ll be fine, Clark’s a good son, and I know you’re looking forward to adopting again. Besides, the boy’s gotta meet his parents someday. We can’t force him to stay, and we’ve already made them wait a long-time honey.”

Clark’s grip loosened around the duffel bag, feeling it slowly slip as his palms sweated and his heart pounded. The words were said in plain speech, but they swirled and swam in his gut, climbing to lodge into his chest, completely foreign. His breath got shorter, chest caving.

_Adopting...his parents....long time...._

_Adopting..._

His feet wouldn’t shift, his head wouldn’t turn. If he looked at them, surely he’d see that they were looking back at him. They were joking. Laughing as he stood there eavesdropping, and would tease him about it when he walked in. Right?

But he couldn’t, because....because....he doesn’t look like ma. He knows Pa’s hair is brown. He knows none of them have that little silly curl that he tried to flatten all the time, and which Bruce always twirls with a finger and teases him about.

He knew Mr. Arling back in primary used to look at him with pity when he handed him permission slips. He knew Sandy once called Pa his grandfather and her mom shushed her before dragging her away and then Sandy never spoke to him again.

His fingers are cold, his vision is fuzzy, and trying to breathe gets harder, painful, and edged with something sharp. He shook his head, and leaned towards the door. He knows it’s a mean joke, but he’ll forgive them.

Smell of detergent from his clothes, laundry in his duffel, money in his wallet, jingle of keys in his pocket. Lump in his throat.

Of course he’ll forgive them.

But they’re not done, and he can’t move. He’s half gone from doubt already, but their words flow, whether he’s there to listen or not. Whether he’s bleeding or not as he hears them.

“I just hate that we’re doing it now, when he’s about to go away to college.”

He heard his Pa laugh, and that was the first time he’d ever resented that sound, the first time the sound crushes his windpipe as he hears it.

“Then we gotta give him a little one to dot on for when he comes home. It’s time Martha, he’s going to be closer to them than we are. We can’t put it off any longer.”

He couldn’t stay anymore.

He couldn’t stand there another second and try to hold himself together without alerting them to his presence, all while trying hard not to shake apart as numbness spread to his limbs, muscles locked in tension. Eyes straining as he held back prickling tears.

So Clark griped the bag tighter, made sure his steps, when his body crumbled and his suspension strings snapped, were light and silent, just how Ma and Pa like them, _no running so fast or you’ll hurt yourself. No pounding on the floor or you’ll bring the house down around our ears._

So he didn’t. He waited until his feet hit the grass to run. Leaving home behind, not looking back as his tears hit the pavement he’s had to help pour and clear after every winter.

Not next year.

Maybe not ever again.

***

The swing was glittery with water, creaking as the wind pushed it, water thudding as it hit the ancient wooden seat. The playground’s long since been abandoned, but he can’t hold himself upright, can’t figure out how he arrived when he couldn’t even see where he was going before the rain. He can see even less as his eyes obscure everything with tears, when his eyelids aren’t too heavy to lift.

They say your life flashes before your eyes before you die, so he must be dying, because there’s a hole punched in the centre of his chest, his ribs hurt as they force his chest out for air, his lungs burn, his nails are embedded in his palm yet closing over nothing, duffel bag gone somewhere during his run. And all along, snatches of his life trip him up, touches of comfort re-written, smiles of happiness changed to pity, laughs became echoes of pain.

Thunder rumbled above him, the sky inky black and he’s right in the centre, shivering, shuddering, pulling lungful after lungful of icy shards into his chest.

The chains clinked as the swing shook, but he’s drowning in a sea of his own tears, mind in turmoil, heart in shreds to even notice when the noise stopped, that the sky no longer plopped its tears on his head, to mix with his own.

Clark didn’t know he hadn’t yet succumbed to anguish yet, until he heard Bruce calling his name.

That’s pain, he thought, finally, that was true pain as he howled, throat ripped open when he screamed through whatever ball of emotion had been lodged there before. His body, wrecked with large, heaving sobs, slipped off and he almost soaked into the mud beneath his feet, if not for Bruce catching him.

His wrists hurt, and he only realized they did when the thumbing sound stopped, and he’s no longer beating them against Bruce’s chest. His arms were limp beside him, Bruce’s palms warm and loosening their hold on them.

He saw the grim expression on Bruce’s face and he couldn’t. He couldn’t stand another rejection, not right now, but he had to ask.

His hoarse voice croaked the words out, and his tears ran hotly down his frozen cheeks, burning just as hot as the flame in his heart as he asked, “could you tell?”

Bruce has never lied to him, never saw the need to hide what he thought, but there was hesitation when he said, “what do you want me to say?”

Clark held onto Bruce’s jacket, because he was drowning, drifting in a whirlpool and he was scared that Bruce had just answered him in the gentlest, kindest painful way he could.

“Please. Oh God. Please. _Please_.” His words were muffled, crushed between pain and truth and it hurt so Goddamn much to say, but he couldn’t stop, he’s hysterical now, he doesn’t even know what he’s saying, his mind has checked out and agony had taken over.

He barely heard Bruce talking, rumble of his chest as Clark cried, face buried in Bruce’s neck, hitching sobs rattling his ribs as they burst out to be heard in the storm.

Bruce’s fingers lifted his face, cupping with warm, familiar hands, and Clark sucked in a breath. Bruce brought them together, touching foreheads, and his breath was warm as he spoke, cutting through the fog in Clark’s mind, “I couldn’t. I see them in you everyday. They’re in the way you smile, in the way you always want to help, in the way you wrinkle your noise at anything excessive, the way you always give your best, the way you love. They’ve always been part of you Clark.”

His tears still rolled silently, dripping onto Bruce’s gloved hands, he knew he wasn’t cried out yet, knew it wasn’t over, but Bruce’s words were resonating, overtaking, and suddenly he shivered, finally feeling the cold.

“Let me take you somewhere warm, and I’ll prove it to you.”

He nodded, even as he felt another fresh bout of tears, even as his eyes stung, his face itching and feeling raw, he nodded. He didn’t complain or say a single word when Bruce scooped him up and carried him to the car.

***

The car ride was a complete blur. So was the arrival and ascent to Bruce’s suite in Wayne Manor.

Clark drifted between apathy and bouts of intense emotion, cycling between the two as he cried his emotions out, hitting a blank state again.

Bruce drew him a bath, carefully undressed him and got him in, squeezing right behind him and holding him as the water warmed his frozen, aching limbs. His thoughts were scattered, floating far enough that he could focus on the feel of fingers combing through his wet hair, an off-key humming sound soothing him as much as the careful soaping and sponging of his body.

No sounds of drip drops from ancient pipes, no incomprehensible muted sounds of the TV, or creaks as the bones of the house resettled again. It was just the scent of Bruce, and his hands and fingers slowly massaging shampoo onto his scalp, pulling little exhausted sighs from him.

His drugged-up state lasted just a bit more before he was there again. Snatches of conversation, the fading light of day beaming through the kitchen window to the corridor, illuminating the flickering dust mots, whiff of coffee taken too far in the percolator, scent of wood varnish that never seems to dissipate. The sick feeling in his gut, pinpricks in his eyes.

Bruce must have sensed the change, because he brought their hands together, traced Clark’s palm and kneaded, bringing him back like a witch doctor pressing on his pressure points, but not really. The distraction worked, and his limp body was supported in an upright position as Bruce began to wash away the soap and shampoo. Open palm pressed against Clark’s hairline, ensuring no soap got in his eyes.

Awareness came with the knowledge of his nakedness, Bruce meticulously towelling him off, and then attempting to dress him. His limbs were too loose to protest and take over the task, and he was so scared of being pushed away if he voiced a protest, that he let it happen instead.

He was dressed in one of Bruce’s warmer sweaters when his emotional cup capped and spilled over, hugging Bruce to him, trying not to cry, wanting to be closer and warmer and wanted.

Bruce leaned a hair away, before he kissed Clark’s closed, puffy eyelids, lips following the tracks of tears that had decided to fall anyways.

They were on the couch, his head hidden in the space between Bruce’s neck and shoulder, Bruce’s hands drawing soothing lines over his back. When he gave an involuntary shiver, Bruce pulled the throw off the back of the couch and covered him with it.

Clark woke up in the exact same position, disoriented, mouth dry and eyes sore. Before he managed to croak out a sound, Bruce held a straw to his lips and he drank slowly. He could only decipher that whatever it was, was sweet.

Bruce took the drink away, kissing the top of his head before he spoke, “hey.”

It took a while to work his jaw and find his voice, but he manged. “H-hey.”

“I’m going to get up and bring a few things, you going to be okay? I’ll be right back.”

It came almost like a blow, when it shouldn’t have, because of course he should be fine if Bruce left for a bit. Left him all alone. He unconsciously gripped Bruce’s clothes, even as he said, “ok”.

“I wouldn’t, but I don’t want Alfred in here.”

It was a sobering thought. He nodded. Bruce didn’t get up right away, even when Clark realized his fingers were still clutching the now rumpled shirt, slowly loosening.

Then Bruce’s fingers were over his, as tight around his hand as his grip had been on the shirt, and it’s comforting to feel. Comforting to know he can cling.

Eventually, Clark turned his palm and linked their fingers, holding on for a heartbeat, squeezing and letting go.

Bruce moved away like molasses, slow and lingering around Clark, and Clark had to dig deep not to call him back or tangle their bodies again.

It made no sense when the tears gathered, at intermediate moments, but it was like they couldn’t help but frame his face every time Bruce touched, caressed or just looked at him.

When Bruce had brought in the tray and Clark watched him dip a towel in icy water, he’d almost let the tears fall. The towel was softly dabbing his eyes, gentle around the thin, fragile skin.

“Tell me if it hurts.”

Clark sucked in a breath, and wished the question wasn’t so loaded, because a whimper escaped anyway, and Bruce stopped, knuckle under the rim of his eyes, barely touching the puffed flesh, catching the stray tear. He kissed where his eyebrows knotted so often while thinking, kissed Clark’s nose, the small dip in his chin, before slotting against his cracked lips in careful soft kisses.

He stopped long enough to bring a mug filled with a broth, spoon sinking inside. Clark’s stomach turned. He couldn’t think about food, didn’t want to go on like nothing had happened, but when Bruce’s fingers brushed the side of his mouth, caressed his lips, he found himself opening his mouth. Bruce fed him small spoonfuls, and he surrendered enough that he took the comfort as it was intended.

He tried not to think about his ma’s chicken noodle soup, a staple in their house if anyone was sick, or winter was rattling the windows of the house; but it was ridiculous to think he could easily not think of what just a few hours ago was his present, not his past.

When the mug was empty, Bruce arranged them on their sides, Clark’s back to the T.V, facing Bruce, whose fingers were massaging the back of Clark’s neck. And it was only when he’d been speaking for a while, that Clark realized Bruce was fulfilling his promise.

“You like your coffee just like hers. The way you both frown at anyone who tries to sneak bites off of unfinished meals is so uncanny. You’ve got the same optimistic attitude as Mr. Kent, you never give up and you’re not scared of hard work. You also tilt your head backwards just like he does when he’s concentrating on fishing. Baby you’re absolutely your parents’ son, in every way that matters.”

The words meant more to him than anything in the world, soothing a bit of the fire in his gut and the pain in his chest. His arms came around Bruce’s neck, holding tightly as more tears squeezed out, dotting Bruce’s neck and shirt. The legs tangled, Bruce’s hands, one on his back drawing indecipherable art, the other still cradling his head.

“How long have you..?” And he nearly bit his tongue on the word. He tells himself he won’t be upset no matter what he found out, but would he really?

Bruce’s fingers stilled just a fraction in their movement, before resuming, careful and light, “since the start. Wayne Enterprise rules. I..assumed you were waiting to tell me yourself.”

It still hit hard, crowding his head with even more thoughts, but one rang clear above all of them, that Bruce knew and was still there. Bruce knew and he would never see him act differently towards Clark, Bruce knew and it was such a relief he would never have to have that particular conversation with doubts that Bruce found him lacking. So Clark fell asleep again, cold compress on his eyes, soft spoken conversations from the TV, and Bruce’s hands all over him, sure, soothing and warm as they rubbed his back.

There was no disorientation this time, he knew exactly where he was, and after letting him get away with a few silent minutes, Bruce removed the compress, and lifted Clark’s chin so he was looking up Bruce.

“You ready to tell me what happened?”

He wasn’t, but there was no putting it off though. “I heard them, in the kitchen before I left.”

Bruce nodded, shuffling and moving, separating them as he sat up, then pulled Clark to him so they didn’t have to have the conversation with strained necks. It also freed up Bruce’s arms, so that they now encircled Clark’s waist, as he half sat in Bruce’s lap, hands linked once more.

The words echoed once more in his head, but he tried to shake them off, not to get caught up before he’d even gotten started. “Ma was worrying about my reaction to them adopting another kid, being replaced. Pa said I was meeting my parents, and I might even be closer to them than Ma and Pa, since I’m leaving. That they’ve been waiting for me to meet them for a long time.”

Bruce stayed quiet while he explained things, kissed the side of his head when he was done. “Which part bothers you more?”

“All of it,” but then he amended, because, of course it all hurt, but he needed to unpack it all. When they came, the words were like glass shards in his throat, broken and hushed, “it feels like they’re giving me away.”

A chocked sob escaped before he could swallow it down, hide his insecurity deep, even in exhaustion, wanting to be strong, tired of crying like a little child.

But Bruce’s hands never let go, never shifted or loosened their hold. His kisses frequent and chaste as Clark tried to calm down again, murmuring words of love, mouthed against Clark’s skin.

When Clark was silent again, a bit more composed, Bruce asked, “what do you want to do about your birth family?”

“I should see them, right? Find some answers. Or not. What if I don’t like what I find out?”

“Wouldn’t it be better to know anyway?”

Clark knew it wasn’t meant as a criticism. It was Just Bruce’s way, and Clark sometimes thought, not unkindly, that Bruce’s lack of fear, and quest for truth no matter what the consequences, was because Bruce had never experienced loss. Because only loss, could teach you true fear, and that was exactly what he was afraid of. “They left me out of their lives once, what if they reject me again? I wouldn’t have the Kents or them then. I don’t want to end up without a family.”

“You won’t,” and Bruce said it was such conviction, Clark even managed a small smile.

“I love you, but I don’t want you to adopt me into your own family,” he kissed Bruce to lessen the effect of the words. He was grateful, but he didn’t want to be indebted to the Waynes, or be under Alfred’s tutelage.

“I meant we could be our own family. Me and you.”

He did smile then, bright and loving, excited butterflies in his stomach. “A white picket fence, and a reasonably sized house, Mr. Wayne. Oh, and a dog too please?”

Bruce snorted, but hugged him closer, “don’t think I didn’t notice you saved the dog for last and tacked on a please.”

“I’m a farmer at heart, of course I want a dog,” he sighed for emphasis.

“Not if you don’t keep any animals on hand you don’t.”

Which was true. He’d begged Ma and Pa for a dog, but the answer was always no, especially since he was too busy with school and practice to have time for one. What boy farmer didn’t have a sidekick?

In the wake of his silence, Bruce snuck in another kiss right behind his ears, and murmured, “fine, but he’s your responsibility.”

Speaking of though..His heart squeezed, and worry started to set in.

“Hey..how did you find out where I was?”

“Ah.”

“Do..Ma and Pa know?” His gut clenched as he asked, dried his mouth.

“They know I found you and you’re staying over. They think you decided to catch the bus and then walked the rest of the way to the Manor because the car had broken down. I don’t know how much of what I said they believed. The playground was a guess, just because you always run in a single trajectory.”

Clark had never seen Bruce hesitate before, but he did just then, seeming to consider his next words. “I might have been ordered to bring you back home tomorrow.”

It was a sobering thought, but Clark guessed it was better than waiting and stewing over what he’d heard and what his future with the Kents might be. Better to have little preparation, then chew himself over it more than he’d already done.

“Ok,” he knew it came out defeated, but he was all cried out and exhausted, and the last thing he wanted was to argue about it, especially since it was obvious Bruce had been told, rather than asked to bring him home.

He leaned back against Bruce, and was asked if he’d still wanted to do the movie marathon. Clark shook his head, closed his eyes and said, “take me to bed.”

Later, he’d blame it being irrational, otherwise he wouldn’t have been that clingy and spoiled, and Bruce would just nod gravely, while trying not to laugh at his indignation.

***

He was usually the little spoon, and it wasn’t entirely because feeling Bruce body pressed against his like that felt like two connected puzzle pieces clicking together. It was because Clark could pretend to still be asleep while facing away, when Bruce woke up and spent time just looking at him sleep. That’s not what he needed today though, so once they settled into Bruce’s huge bed, they found their way to each other, and Clark draped himself over Bruce like an octopus. Every limb was entangled with another, so that they created one giant lump under the sheets, one huge love cocoon of tired bodies seeking comfort and reassurance.

As Clark closed his eyes, face tucked under Bruce’s chin, he heard it again, the sound and rumble of a tune.

“Is that you humming?”

Bruce kissed the top of Clark's head in apology, “I’ll stop.”

“No. I like it. It’s nice,” he kissed Bruce’s chest so he’d know it was.

He fell asleep listening to the sound of Bruce’s humming, and the quite reverberations of it under his ears.

When he woke up sometimes later, they were still intertwined together. What made him resurface from sleep, though still resisting the pull of just going back, was the unmistakable grind of his hips against Bruce’s thigh, trapped between his own. Whatever dream he was having, slipped away so that only the feeling of desperation it had ignited was left behind. He shouldn’t, not when Bruce is asleep, not after the day he’d had, but there was no stopping the roll of his hips and the little swallowed whines that rumble in his throat as he chased the edge of hazy, tingling pleasure.

Bruce’s hand on his ass stilled him, and he looked guiltily into those rapidly blinking eyes, not sure what to say. Bruce’s voice was still hoarse with sleep when he asked, “starting without me?”

Clark shook his hand, whatever excuse about to leave his lips, dissolved into a gasp as Bruce’s hand tugged the underwear down, and then slid warm fingers into the crack of Clark’s ass, rubbing and tapping his hole, guiding his grinding motions, steering him as Clark worked his cock against the slippery mess coating the inside of his pants.

Then Bruce’s fingers were gone, and Clark looked up just in time to see Bruce’s middle finger disappear into the man’s mouth, then out again, wet and dripping. Clark groaned, because he knows where it was going next, and his knees shifted, flattened his chest to Bruce’s body, even as his hips lifted to ease the way.

The slip and slide was so familiar, hips hitching to chase the trajectory as Bruce teased around the rim, the brushing teasingly against Clark’s balls, still light enough to count and not count at all. He glared at Bruce, body still rolling, looking for friction. “Don’t tease.”

Bruce laughed, low and melodic, before he shifted so both his hands were free, one grabbing a palm-full of Clark’s ass, the other’s finger circling the rim, until finally breaching to the first knuckle.

Clark shuddered, panting and trying to be still so Bruce had no excuse not to move, and to keep his cock strained in the fabric of the pants, soaked in pre-come. When Bruce nailed his prostate, he quivered all over a long moan escaping his mouth.

He could tell even in the relative darkness, that Bruce was smirking, glad Clark had forgotten himself, so Clark drags his own restless hands, biting into one to keep silent, while the encircles his cock as it pops free of the elastic.

The sound of a cap opening resonates in the air, before Clark feels the pool of lube as it gathers in the valley between his ass cheeks. A bit more is poured over Clark’s cock and the wet squelch is audible as he worked the length, tweaked the head and ground down on Bruce’s fingers. He was close, brushing the slit, legs and hips shaking as Bruce pumped a rhythm, pulling his fingers out rubbing the outside of Clark’s hole, sensitized as it was from the teasing earlier. Clark chokes out a moan, before sliding his fist back, touching Bruce’s fingers and pushing to get him back inside, just a bit more, just enough to feel that burning scrap and scratch against his walls, he was so _close_.

Bruce has either gotten the message, or he was done teasing, because now he insistently rubbed Clark inside out and Clark worked his cock furiously to the same movement, straining as his body reached the apex of his pleasure and shot ropes of come all over Bruce’s chest, shuddering through the climax.

He was still panting, getting his breath back, when he realized Bruce had been so busy with him, he probably hadn’t come. So he moved jelly like limbs, trying to see if he could return the favour, when Bruce kissed him, and squeezed his wandering hands lightly in a sign to stop.

“But you..?”

Bruce gave him another kiss, slow, lingering and loving, “it’ll keep until we wake up again. Maybe you can tell me about that dream that had you so frisky you were humping my leg that happily.”

Clark bit Bruce’s chin, still feeling mellow enough from his orgasm that he didn’t rise to the bait. “Idiot. Of course, it was about you.”

If Bruce started to hum again, well, Clark wasn’t mad about that either.

***

They made the dreaded trip back home, hand in hand, and the unusually soft look in Alfred’s eyes shifting from the road to look at both of them and back during the entire journey.

They found Pa outside, charging Clark’s car’s battery from a motor they kept in the tool shed. He gave them a nod as they parked, wiped his hands on a rag that always stayed in his pocket, and then pointed to the house.

So much for launching a surprise attack.

Before he got out of the car, Bruce drew him back, asking, “are you sure I shouldn’t go in with you?”

Clark nodded, touched at the sentiment. “It might get.. intense, and Ma and Pa won’t want you to witness that. I’ll come out if I need you, I promise.”

Bruce gave him a lingering kiss, and Clark had to pull back before he either changed his mind, or got emotional. Alfred cleared his throat, then pointed at the house where Jonathan Kent was at the door, waiting.

Clark got out of the car.

Walking the short distance to the house he’d lived in his entire life, suddenly felt extremely foreign. He was watching the house and the surroundings as if from an outsider’s gaze, details no longer glossed over with familiarity. The alien feeling continued even when he walked inside, Pa having already preceded him to the kitchen, taking up his usual seat, Ma at the counter, pouring coffee into a mug for him. He hated himself for hesitating, and he could see that Ma had noticed that he took his time in going over and giving her the usual customary kiss.

He took his seat and eyed the coffee like it was going to help him navigate the conversation. Pa broke the silence first, and it would have been a relief, if he hadn’t still chosen the roundabout way.

“Car’s battery was dead. You’d best remember to check that the lights are off before you get inside the house.”

Silence descended again, but not for long, not when Ma wouldn’t stand for their bullheadedness anymore, “Son, I don’t know what you heard, but you must have some questions.”

So he started with the truth, “I don’t know where to start.”

It killed him to see Ma hesitating to touch him, just like he’d hesitated to greet her, but he didn’t reject her hand on his arm when it finally landed, and squeezed.

“You can start anywhere you like.”

He blurted it out before he’d even thought about it, “do you love me? Don’t you want me to stay?”

Pa’s face paled under his farmer’s tan, and Ma’s hand gripped his arm a little harder. John scooted closer to him, his turn to comfort when he faced Clark and said, “’course we love you, and of course we want you to stay. We just don’t want to get in your way son. We won’t stand in the way of your dreams, just so our old souls can have you around.”

“Your Pa’s right Clark. We love you more than anything. I thought going to college with Bruce was what you wanted. But if you’ve changed your mind, nothing will change, we’ll still support you.”

He could feel the burn in his eyes, but he wouldn’t cry, he’d cried enough the day before, he’d probably cry later with Bruce’s arms around him, trying to take on his pain. So, he took a deep breath and finally asked, “then, why are sending me to _them_ , why are you replacing me with another kid?”

In the wake of his question, Ma and Pa just looked at each other, frowns clear on their faces, followed by confusion, until Pa asked, “how much of the conversation did you hear exactly?”

Clark could feel something was up with the question, but he was in two minds on whether he’d heard wrong, or he hadn’t and they were worried he’d heard more than they’d bargained for, and the whole close-knit family illusion was going to shatter. “That you’re excited about adopting again, and that you’ve kept my..my parents waiting a long time.”

He saw Pa scrubbing his face, and Ma’s expression was incomprehensible. She then moved her hand away, before quickly getting out of her chair, and hugging Clark close. “Oh, Clark, that must have been awful to hear. I wish you’d come in and talked with us. No wonder you ran off in the rain.” A tear still slid down his face, unbidden, and he moved to wipe it off quickly.

Pa got up next, and laid a hand on Clark’s shoulder, gripping tightly. “It’s not what you think son. I was hoping we would have broken the news, the _correct_ news to you more gently. But I guess now’s a good time as any.”

What they spent the next few minutes saying to him, was a revelation, and he felt so _sheepish_ afterwards, that he wanted to groan and bury his head under the floorboards and never resurface again.

“We’d planned to take you to the cemetery before you settled into the apartment, and explain things there, pay our respects to your parents, show you where you were born. Your parents didn’t have any registered relatives, so it made sense to not stay in the city for what ifs.”

Ma laughed, excited to tease him now that everything was out in the open, “we were going to then head to the animal shelter and pick up Brutus, so it wouldn’t be a lonely trip back home, and you could get to see him before we left. I thought Brutus would be a bigger incentive for you to come home to.”

He actually did groan then, and then rushed to hug both his Ma and Pa. “I love you both so much.”

Ma wiped her own tears and than patted his back, teasing, “that’ll teach you not to eavesdrop again.”

He nodded, laughing. The little ball of anxiety he’d carried with him since that morning, slowly dissipating.

Pa gave him one last hug, and told him to, “tell that young man waiting outside to come in, you’ve left him waiting long enough.”

So Clark rushed outside, smiling, feeling light on his feet, feeling loved, filled with a thousand more questions, but satisfied with current answers, and when Bruce got out of the car to meet him, he jumped into his arms, nearly sending them toppling to the ground beneath them.

He laughed, happy and so delirious with relief that the only thing he did manage to say before kissing Bruce senseless, was, “we’re getting a dog!”

**Author's Note:**

> My goal with this was to make at least one person cry, otherwise, why am I doing this to just myself?  
> *blows into tissue*  
> Commission for GinAkuma.


End file.
